The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
The morrow was a busy day: For his departure no delay
Th'impatient Doctor would admit: London he now resolv'd to quit;
Nay, thought it could not be too soon, Why not that very afternoon?
To Pat he made his wishes known, With orders, that all might be done,
To quicken the departing hour
Which would commence his homeward tour.
But Pat just hinted they must stay For packing due another day,
As the soil'd linen was just sent To wash-tub's cleansing management,
And certain clothes, from rents and tears,
Were at the tailor's for repairs.
Now, as th'unwelcome truths he told,
The room-door open'd and behold
Good Mrs. Broom—when with her came
The smirking, curtsying, comely dame,
Who, smiling on the foundling's charms,
Would place it in the Doctor's arms.
He, half-afraid and half-asham'd, Refus'd the boon, when she exclaim'd,
“You need not fear, depend upon't
You've held five hundred at the font,
And do not, Sir, look grave and frown,
I'm sure you'll love it as your own.”
It was not that his heart relented Or of his charity repented;
But that he saw another cause In present haste to make a pause
That a whole day might be beguil'd In some provision for the child.
At length, howe'er, the babe he kiss'd,
And when he had the charge dismiss'd,
He told the laundress to apply To the parochial ministry,
That ev'ry sacred rite be done, And the poor child be christen'd John.
He order'd too, that twice each week,
The nurse would dear Miss Pallet seek,
Who would o'er all his wants preside, As a kind patroness and guide.
“But let me ask, for, in this town,”
The Doctor said, “strange things are done,
How shall I know, when, brought to me,
It is the self-same child I see;
And that the foundling does not come
A changeling to my distant home!”
“Fear not,” she answer'd, “I will show
A sign by which the child you'll know;
It is not in the baby's face, Nor do I chuse to name the place:
A Strawberry, as blushing red As when it ripens on its bed,
Does on a certain part appear,
Though I, Sir, must not tell you where;
Nay, it is such a curious mark, That you may feel it in the dark.
The mother, when encreas'd in waist,
Long'd I suppose the fruit to taste,
And, as her wish was not obtain'd,
Th'unconscious child this mark has gain'd.
—When I was big, Sir, with my Stephen,
Who now is singing hymns in Heaven,
I long'd for Pork—I'm not mistaken,
And the dear child was mark'd with Bacon:
Nay, at the time when beans were ripe
It grew more like its prototype,
And never fail'd to meet the eye In vegetating sympathy.
The mother's longing makes it so
As Doctors say—and they should know.”
The Sage, who was his coffee taking,
Laugh'd 'till his very sides were shaking;
And, waken'd to a lively key, By Goody Broom's philosophy,
He lost at once his teasing sense Of hurry and impatience,
And thus determin'd to delay His journey to another day;
And with Miss Pallet to enjoy, Without allay, without alloy,
The hours that might remain his own Ere he forsook the smoky town,
To her his willing steps he bent, And as her list'ning ear she lent.
He told his plans, unveil'd his cares,
Display'd what were his hopes and fears,
His purpose ne'er again to roam
From his lake-side and pleasant home;
Nor more indulge in fancy's dream,
Nor let the air-built flatt'ring scheme
Of worldly interest turn aside His mind from reason as its guide;
But while th'allotted moments pass, As the sands lessen in the glass,
By duty's ordinance to move In the strait path of social love;
T'enjoy the various good that's given,
To seek and teach the way to heaven,
And cheerful view the curtain fall—
The common fate that waits us all.
Th'impatient Doctor would admit: London he now resolv'd to quit;
Nay, thought it could not be too soon, Why not that very afternoon?
To Pat he made his wishes known, With orders, that all might be done,
To quicken the departing hour
Which would commence his homeward tour.
But Pat just hinted they must stay For packing due another day,
As the soil'd linen was just sent To wash-tub's cleansing management,
And certain clothes, from rents and tears,
Were at the tailor's for repairs.
Now, as th'unwelcome truths he told,
The room-door open'd and behold
Good Mrs. Broom—when with her came
The smirking, curtsying, comely dame,
Who, smiling on the foundling's charms,
Would place it in the Doctor's arms.
He, half-afraid and half-asham'd, Refus'd the boon, when she exclaim'd,
“You need not fear, depend upon't
You've held five hundred at the font,
And do not, Sir, look grave and frown,
I'm sure you'll love it as your own.”
It was not that his heart relented Or of his charity repented;
But that he saw another cause In present haste to make a pause
That a whole day might be beguil'd In some provision for the child.
At length, howe'er, the babe he kiss'd,
And when he had the charge dismiss'd,
He told the laundress to apply To the parochial ministry,
That ev'ry sacred rite be done, And the poor child be christen'd John.
He order'd too, that twice each week,
The nurse would dear Miss Pallet seek,
Who would o'er all his wants preside, As a kind patroness and guide.
“But let me ask, for, in this town,”
The Doctor said, “strange things are done,
How shall I know, when, brought to me,
It is the self-same child I see;
And that the foundling does not come
A changeling to my distant home!”
“Fear not,” she answer'd, “I will show
A sign by which the child you'll know;
It is not in the baby's face, Nor do I chuse to name the place:
A Strawberry, as blushing red As when it ripens on its bed,
Does on a certain part appear,
Though I, Sir, must not tell you where;
359
The mother, when encreas'd in waist,
Long'd I suppose the fruit to taste,
And, as her wish was not obtain'd,
Th'unconscious child this mark has gain'd.
—When I was big, Sir, with my Stephen,
Who now is singing hymns in Heaven,
I long'd for Pork—I'm not mistaken,
And the dear child was mark'd with Bacon:
Nay, at the time when beans were ripe
It grew more like its prototype,
And never fail'd to meet the eye In vegetating sympathy.
The mother's longing makes it so
As Doctors say—and they should know.”
The Sage, who was his coffee taking,
Laugh'd 'till his very sides were shaking;
And, waken'd to a lively key, By Goody Broom's philosophy,
He lost at once his teasing sense Of hurry and impatience,
And thus determin'd to delay His journey to another day;
And with Miss Pallet to enjoy, Without allay, without alloy,
The hours that might remain his own Ere he forsook the smoky town,
To her his willing steps he bent, And as her list'ning ear she lent.
He told his plans, unveil'd his cares,
Display'd what were his hopes and fears,
His purpose ne'er again to roam
From his lake-side and pleasant home;
Nor more indulge in fancy's dream,
Nor let the air-built flatt'ring scheme
Of worldly interest turn aside His mind from reason as its guide;
But while th'allotted moments pass, As the sands lessen in the glass,
By duty's ordinance to move In the strait path of social love;
T'enjoy the various good that's given,
To seek and teach the way to heaven,
And cheerful view the curtain fall—
The common fate that waits us all.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |